


Nope

by terminallyToreadork



Series: Nope [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crossdressing, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 00:06:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminallyToreadork/pseuds/terminallyToreadork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...you think 'to hell with it.' Carpe Diem. Seize the day. Or, seize Gamzee's ass. That'll work too."</p><p>Also known as Continuing Adventures in Attempted Smut Writing, Why Are You Rapping at my Dick?, or Dammit You Two Just Do It Already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seize Gamzee's Ass

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to move this over here...
> 
> I guess I should warn in case people are uncomfortable with this stuff, there's some blood, drugs are mentioned, and some mental heath issues and other's discomfort with mental heath issues and basically Tavros is a dick. Oh, there's dicks mentioned here too. And tattoos. OK that should cover it. Have fun.

It's one of those days you get back to your apartment and find your bathroom mirror broken. Also broken is the latch on the window. It's the one in the kitchen that you once dropped a hot dog out of after a video game marathon some months ago and Aradia, high off sugar, too little sleep and too many victories, had laughed until she threw up. The broken latch isn't new, but the window wasn't open when you left this morning.

The shattered mirror is your first indication that something is wrong. You're not sure you have the money to replace it. There's drops of blood trailing out of the washroom, to eventually end up in your bedroom, and you're glad your apartment doesn't have carpet. The closet is open and towels are spilling out onto the floor like an avalanche. There are red smears on the doorknobs and at odd intervals along the walls.

You crack open your bedroom door, foam LARPing sword in your hand, because you don't have anything better. You could take a knife from the kitchen, but the sword was fucking expensive and looks real under extremely dim lighting, so you may as well feel badass for five seconds of your life if you're about to die anyway.

Inside the room, there's no serial killer or ravenous monster or whatever your imagination was trying to convince you of. Unless the pile of EVERY FUCKING PILLOW AND BLANKET YOU OWN (and the plush Pokémon collection that was certainly not childish of you to keep) which has mysteriously spawned on your bed counts.

The blinds are shut and the lights off, the only source of light is from the hallway and the cracks where the blinds just don't fit the window right. The blanket monster moves as you push the door all the way open, and unwashed, unruly hair timidly appears from within. You relax a little, recognizing the white and grey face paint and strong cheekbones.

It's Gamzee, seemingly having some sort of episode. Karkat had gone to visit Jade for the month, and he'd been coming to you for help with things he normally went to Karkat for. Such as borrowing a can opener when his went missing. Or asking if you knew where his shoelace went. Or showing up to give you the fugliest Pikachu toy you'd ever seen, having apparently sewn it himself by hand, just for you.

"Hey Tav. You was gone for a while," he accuses, as if it's your fault you have to go to work. Then he just beams at you, a full force smile.

Gamzee had a few mental disorders, you're sure. What he had exactly, you didn't know, and neither did anyone else, as he was very adept at avoiding psychologists. The last time you and Karkat had tried to talk him into seeing one, he'd disappeared for a week and a half. When he finally turned up again, he had bruises dotted with tiny scabs in the crooks of his elbows, no wallet or phone, but several hickeys and a bright red thong in his left jacket pocket. He never bothered to explain, as far as you were aware, and it had taken a while to get him sorted out afterward. (You did convince him to get an HIV test. He passed, to your relief.)

He looks almost terrified when you flick the light on and lean your LARP sword against the wall by the door. The mountain on your bed shifts and some Pokémon fall as he tries to bury himself further.

"Gamzee." You clear the pile from around his face and lightly kiss the tip of his nose. Your lips feel greasy, and Gamzee's staring at the white smudged on them. "Did you break my mirror?"

He nods like a child caught decorating the walls with their mother's make-up. A tiny smile comes back to his face.

"Did you hurt yourself?"

Another nod. He squirms and pulls his bloody hand out where you can see it. You take his hand carefully and decide it really needs washing so that you can check for glass. You tell him so. He frowns under his painted smile and it's odd, for a moment, seeing two expressions on the same face.

"I ain't moving."

"Gamzee, I am going to clean up the mirror. Then, I think, you need a shower, actually." You wrinkle your nose.

He gives a noncommittal hum and you figure that's the best you're getting out of him. Karkat can deal with whatever's going on in Gamzee's head when he gets back. You're going to clean up your bathroom.

You leave the room, wondering how Karkat manages to put up with his cousin nearly every day. Then again, Gamzee usually isn't very bad, just odd. On your way to the apartment door, you notice a multi-coloured heart and a winking smiley face marker'd on the living room wall. Dammit. You pick up your shoes and swallow your irritation, heading back to the washroom.

You put on your shoes, and carefully pick up the larger fragments of glass, pitching them into the bathroom garbage. You vacuum up the smaller bits, and by the time you were satisfied, Gamzee had shuffled out to check on you, no less than three blankets and two towels draped over him.

You tape a garbage bag over what remains of your mirror. More shards falling so you can step on them isn't what you need right now.

"You're going to take a shower now, alright? Wash your hand, too."

You leave him in the washroom and play a Final Fantasy game on your old Playstation for thirty minutes until you realize he still hasn't turned the water off, and you already pay too much for that. You pause the game, head back to the washroom, and knock on the door.

He doesn't answer, so you call his name, knock again, and open the door as you start to panic.

There was no way he would have drowned in the tub, right? What would you tell Karkat? 'Hello, your clown-obsessed cousin drowned in my shower because he punched my bathroom mirror.'

You almost trip over his pants on the way into your tiny washroom. His shirt is in the sink, and the blankets and towels are in a heap on the floor.

"Are you okay?" you ask the shower curtain.

"I'm missing my face, brother," he tells you.

"That's okay with me, I've seen you without it before," you try to reason, not sure what his problem is, but hoping it won't turn into a thing.

"…Yeah."

"Are you done yet? I have to pay for water, you know. That means, more going to work."

"Sorry." The water goes off.

"I'll be waiting outside, okay?"

"That's motherfuckin fine by me, brother."

"Okay." You leave him to it, and remember there's a whole big mess still sitting neglected on your bed. Shit.

You shove season one of Ren & Stimpy into your DVD player, and press 'play all' to keep him occupied while you tidy your room. On your way out of the living room you notice his backpack, and wonder if he's going to stay for the night.

He can be a handful sometimes, but it's worth it, you think, removing your Pokémon and creating separate piles of 'bloody mess' and 'reasonably clean'. Everything else you're just going to wash.

When you go back out to check on him, he's curled up on the couch, covered in your towels and blankets again. He's smiling at the TV, but that's not going to mean anything once his attention is turned away from it.

After grabbing one of those huge-ass bandages you've never bothered remembering the name of, you plop down next to him, and sure enough, his smile fades into guilt when he looks at you. It's always a shock to see his naked face, but you're careful to not react.

"How's your hand?"

"Hurts," he grunts.

"Is there anything in it?"

He shakes his head.

"Can I double check?"

He nods and wiggles his arm out of the blankets. His shoulder is bare.

You're gentle as you can be, but he makes a pained face when you poke at his newly cleaned wound, of course. He doesn't pull away, trusting you to not be hurting him intentionally. Gamzee trusts you unconditionally, it seems. Maybe even more than he trusts Karkat. This makes you a little uncomfortable; you're sure you don't deserve it.

He's right, there's no glass in his hand as far as you can tell. After the bandage is on, you let go and stand up to leave, but Gamzee's not having any of that. You know because he's hooked a finger through the back belt loop on your jeans.

"Is that where this is going?"

"'Less you've got better shit to do." He tugs you back half a step. "And I ain't all thinkin' you motherfuckin do."

You think about all the laundry you have to wash. Dragging that to the building's laundry room is going to be a bitch. Gamzee pulls again, and you think 'to hell with it.' Carpe Diem. Seize the day. Or, seize Gamzee's ass. That'll work too.

You're not really boyfriends. You've never really named your relationship beyond 'friends', because you've never needed to. You're just Gamzee's bro who once found flavoured condoms in his room, drunkenly accepted his (also drunk) offer to try them out, and woke up on his washing machine with a hangover, the taste of grape cough syrup in your mouth, and half of Facebook convinced you're gay. Things just kind of continued after that.

You allow him to drag you back to the couch, but, he broke your mirror, and you're not letting him get off that easily.

As he goes for the button on your jeans, you get him in a headlock, twist away and slide to the floor, briefly pinning him to the couch. Your intention was less about keeping him down and more about telling him how you're playing. Neither of you are the best at verbal communication, and you really should work on that but right now you don't care.

It wasn't odd for things between you to start with a play-fight. Once, you two had to stop things because you'd accidentally broken Gamzee's nose. Kanaya, who was going to school to be a nurse at the time, lived only a few blocks away, and you called her to come over because Gamzee refused to go to the hospital. She exasperatedly fixed his nose in your kitchen while you you tried to hide behind an oven mitt.

Gamzee laughs in response to your silent challenge and wraps his arm around your torso so you end up in some sort of hug, before rolling off the couch and onto you. The blankets tangle around his legs, and you don't see a thread of clothing on him at all. Sneaky naked bastard planned this.

He's landed in the perfect position to get at your neck, and you know what he's going to do half a second before he does it, as he smirks and a bead of water slips from his freshly washed hair to your chin. His lips make a seal on your skin and he sucks hard to leave a bruise.

There's another marker heart on the ceiling. 'I love you Tav' is written inside, and you wonder how the hell he managed to write so neatly on the ceiling, of all places.

Surfacing from your distraction, your fingers find a grip on his hair, and you yank his head back. He pushes the hem of your shirt up, and you let him take it off, because you do want this to happen, even if you don't want to make it easy. He broke your fucking mirror and drew on the walls.

You manage to flip him over on the floor so that you're straddling his stomach. Getting rid of that coffee table was the best decision of your life, and both your back and your poor abused toes are grateful. He's all about getting your jeans' button on undone right away, while at the same time trying to get you lower on his body. He'd make quicker progress with both if he would just pick one to do first, and it's pretty damned funny watching him try. You pull his face towards you and bite his lip gently to give him another distraction and then stop being sadistic long enough to help him with the button, because the jeans were getting uncomfortable anyway.

Your jeans are half off when you notice that the blankets are now fully removed from Gamzee, and while his erect dick is the first thing you notice, there's something dark on his hip. You lean over to get a better look and he stills to let you see.

He has 'Tavros' tattooed on his hip. It's still red around the edges, and if you're being honest with yourself, it's well done. It takes a while to sink in.

He has your name tattooed on his hip.

Your name.

His hip.

"Nope." Not dealing with these implications. Done. You're done. You leave him naked and confused in the living room with the forgotten cartoon still running on the TV, lock yourself in the bathroom and take care of that stubborn erection yourself. Then you wait for the man outside the door to give up and leave, ignoring the apology written above the toilet and the scribbled drawing of him hugging you.


	2. Why Are You Rapping at my Dick?

The next Saturday morning, someone's cooking in the kitchen when you wake up. The emphasis here being on the word morning. Saturday shouldn't have a morning. Saturday shouldn't exist before noon at the earliest, and is sure as fuck shouldn't exist before you've had your daily caffeine fix.

It takes you a few minutes to remember you live alone. Usually. There is the occasional time when a someone climbs in through the window and finds your bed, one way or another.

As expected, when you wander half-awake into the kitchen, it's Gamzee. You really need to fix that window. He seems to think he's entitled to show up in your apartment at any time. Then again Gamzee seems to think he's welcome just about everywhere, much like Nepeta's evil little cat that liked to nap on your face even as your allergies made you sneeze hard enough to produce a small hurricane.

If it was anyone other than Gamzee you would be reacting a lot more, but for some reason you trust the asshole not to do anything too stupid.

Instead of demanding an explanation, you slam your head down on a patch of uncluttered kitchen table and demand scrambled eggs and coffee.

"Sure bro," is his way too cheerful agreement. You're not sure what's with him today. He's never a morning person.

You're in the middle of glaring up at him to admonish his tendency to break into your apartment and agreeably make you breakfast at moron o'clock on a Saturday morning, when you notice a hundred dollars sticking out from underneath the stack of this month's bills.

No, that's not allowed.

You have no idea where he gets all this money from; sometimes you think he must be a drug dealer; you've never caught him working. All you know is that every now and then he'll pull money out of nowhere like he just pisses the stuff out and tries tricking you into keeping it like you can't pay for your own apartment. You're an adult with a job. You do no need any questionably acquired money lying around. Even if he's possibly somehow obtaining it legally and you just don't know how.

You dig out all the money he's left you on the table (it ends up being about a thousand dollars, wow), stand up, and cram it into his back pocket with all the indignant pride of a wronged three-year-old.

He jumps at your aggressive assault on his ass and drops an egg on the floor. Both of you stare at it for a moment before you kick him in the calf and tell him to "clean it up, bitch."

If he expected you to be sweet and kind and awake before 12 on a Saturday AND before coffee, he should just lay his own head down on the burner. Maybe the heat will stimulate a few of his frozen brain cells.

You go back to resting on the table and a few minutes later, he informs you that you've not go enough coffee left "to be filling a cap of the most bitchingest tiny of elixir spill preventers."

Maybe you should buy a game later today to better ignore him.

* * *

The worst part of buying video games from Sollux was occasionally, well, Sollux himself. After about 15 minutes of stalling with a used PS2 game in hand and an increasing caffeine withdrawal headache, you give up hope of Roxy coming to rescue you and resign yourself to the inevitable verbal reflection of his sour facial expression.

"Man, Kingdom Hearts?" Sollux lisps, eyebrows raised at the game you'd reluctantly placed on the counter. "Talk about girly. Seriously, it's worse than fucking Final Fantasy."

"See, I thought this was a game store," you intone, becoming exasperated in record time, "where I pay for video games. Not an insult store. I'm not here to pay for you to emasculate me."

"Whoa, testy today, aren't we?" His mouth twitches at the corner. "What's wrong, inflatable girlfriend not giving you enough head?"

"We- I ran out of coffee this morning, and I don't have an inflatable girlfriend. I don't have a girlfriend at all, actually."

"Of course you wouldn't, if you're buying games like Kingdom fucking Hearts," he mutters while eyeing the hickey on your neck with some suspicion.

Before you can reply, the door to the back room slams open, Roxy bounces in, chucks a pack of DS styluses at Sollux's head, and smoothly kicks the door shut. "There wasn't any arguing going on, right?"

Sollux grumbles to himself and slouches off to rearrange a display of Wii games.

"So! How's things?" She inquires cheerfully.

"Fine. You seem happy today."

"Oh, fuck yeah." She raises an eyebrow at the game you're buying, but doesn't say anything.

You feel the need to defend yourself anyway. Even if the only defense you can think of makes you seem like a child.

"I heard it has Peter Pan in it."

"Right. Okay. Whatevs." The game is scanned and she asks you for $13.99. You dig a ten and a five out of your pocket. You never put your money in your wallet. There's no real reason, other than laziness.

Roxy punches buttons on the cash register with enthusiasm, and Sollux mutters something to himself in a way that reminds you of Gollum from the Lord of the Rings. The overhead fan makes a loud screeching noise before resuming humming like your tone deaf great-uncle when he can't read the words on the karaoke machine.

"Need to get that fixed," Roxy suddenly tells you, "swear the other day it sounded like a crying baby," she shoves the receipt in the game case, not bothering to ask if you want a bag.

"Oh," you laugh awkwardly, assuming she was referring too the ceiling fan, but still not sure how to respond.

"Speaking of crying babes, did'ja see Gam's new ink? Your boy wouldn't shut up the entire time, damn near crushed my arm off too."

You just look at her for a minute.

"OK, there are two things, that I believe need to be addressed here," you protest, "The first being that Gamzee and I are not romantically involved, irregardless of what certain websites would lead you to believe." Roxy raises her eyebrows. "The second, being that if you were there, why didn't you stop him from getting the tattoo? What kind of tattooist tattoos names on people, while we're on that topic? It seems, well, irresponsible."

"See, here's the funny thing; your name is the Greek word for bull," she informs you like it's not something you've known since you were four.

"Yes, OK, I know that-"

"And he's got a huge fucking crush on you."

"But we just-" You stop, because admitting that you and Gamzee have sex occasionally just for the hell of it is still difficult.

"'Sides, wave enough money in anyone's face and there ain't shit they're not going to do." She shoves the game towards you. "I got crap to organize in the back. Go make up with your boy before I find him drunk on my couch again."

That last part isn't something you want to know the story of.

You just tell her bye and take off out the door before Sollux can give you more shit about buying Disney games.

Gamzee better have gotten that coffee you'd sent him for.

* * *

Gamzee had, in fact, gotten coffee. Coffee of the cheap instant kind that left the crunchy bits at the bottom of the mug, smelled like used dishrags, and left you feeling you were chewing on sand. He probably became enamoured of the colourful label and bought the most offensively neon package he could find, but it was hot and full of caffeine, and you were much more tolerant of him now that it was in your system.

You were even feeling gracious enough to kiss him before playing your new used game. His lips are warm and rough but gentle; likely he doesn't want you to run off and lock yourself in the bathroom again. The thought makes the image of your name on him flash through your mind, and you break away from his lips, not wanting to even consider the implications.

Unfortunately, the kiss made him follow you to the couch like a begging puppy. He half curls around you and starts moving his lips along your jaw as the opening cinematic plays on screen. You shrug him away before falling victim to his confused expression, giving him another quick kiss, and pulling away before it got too far and he gets the idea he can keep going. He smells like weed.

While you loved even the older video games, Gamzee was one of those people that honestly couldn't even work out how to play Tetris. In racing games he would veer from side to side in what was eerily similar to the flight path of a housefly. Any game that involved fighting... well, you just didn't talk about those. The fact he could use a phone and would occasionally respond to texts was, as he would put it, a motherfucking miracle.

As such, he didn't understand the appeal of playing video games. He liked watching you play them, sometimes, but right now he didn't seem to be in the mood for cuddling into your side in the best way to restrict your elbow movement and alternately regarding both you and the screen with rapt fascination.

Today, he's antsy and the screen doesn't interest him. You have to swat at him with the controller a few times until he gets the idea and wanders off. No doubt he's going to cause discord and panic among your plush Pokémon. He has just the vaguest idea of what Pokémon was, and yet seemed to gravitate to them when he's over.

Gamzee is back a few minutes later, and when you look, there's no Pokémon to be found. You were wrong, he was doing something else. Hopefully he didn't decorate your walls again.

He flops facedown, chest on your legs, and you just lift the controller and rest your elbows on his back, putting pressure on him until he's uncomfortable and wiggles off you onto the floor. You pat him affectionately on the head and go back to the game. It seems to want you to choose a fighting style. You jump on the sword in front of you, figuring attack is the best way to go. Button mashing is one of your greatest talents, after all.

Gamzee sits up, putting his hands on your knees and blocking your view of the screen as you think about the next choice in the game. You lean to the side and he goes with you, until you loop your arms over the back of his neck, press your forearms down on his shoulders, and rest your chin on the top of his head so you can see the screen.

He pushes up against your chin in brief resistance before dropping down to sit on the floor, his head resting on your thigh. It takes you a few moments to realize what his rhythmic mumbling is.

"...What was wrong and I'm all motherfucking clueless as to why I've got to be fallin' from your wicked-ass to-do list..."

His volume drops some and you miss the next part, but then he's louder again and you catch it.

"...And it's being a motherfucking while since getting to giving a fuck, so if a bro ain't all to minding I'll give you a rude suck."

Holy shit.

You make a strangled sounding noise like when your throat decides it wants to be a beehive or a TV that isn't turned to a channel and all that comes out is the sound of buzzing and mucus.

"Why," you ask, "are you rapping at my dick?"

"Nah, the question's all bein' more like, why ain't you rapping at mine?"

"Because, it never occurred to me, as something to do?" You pause your game and drop the controller to the side. You look at his hands, one of them sporting still fresh scabs from your broken mirror.

Gamzee grins wide, deciding he's won your attention, and gets between your knees so he's close enough to kiss you firmly on the lips. "Well can a brother be trying it out?"

Your brain does its best impression of a stalled car. Gamzee kisses you again, and his hands are on your hips, thumbs slipping under your boxers. How does he think you're going to do rap about anything with his hands there?

"You just gotta inform about where your heart's all at in relation to its being, Tav."

"OK, that's, uh, I think-" What do you think? "I think your dick is really great, and not, an anatomical feature I hate."

"Tav, you're tellin' me. Gotta be tellin' the little guy."

"OK, uh, shit, I can't? I mean I can't even see your-"

He's up off the floor, beside you on the couch, and you didn't even know he could get his pyjama bottoms off that fast, but he'd solved the problem of you not being able to see your audience. At least his shirt was covering the tattoo. "Any more addressable bro?"

"Uh, yes, thanks."

"'Kay then." He dips his head in a slight nod to encourage you.

"Your, um, you..." You're have trouble getting started with the ridiculousness of the situation. "I can't. Nope. There's no, flow there, and it's not because I have a problem with the anatomy presented. It's that..."

"Aw, it's alright brother." He settles back on the couch beside you, kicking his pants a little farther away in an absent motion. "Can't be forcin' art."

You realize the controller is no longer on the couch; it's instead sitting beside your TV. The abused piece of furniture is occupied solely by you, a half-naked clown, and some stray Cheetos between the cushions.

Gamzee: 1, Game: 0

You consider giving Gamzee the satisfaction of taking his hint. It's not even a hint at this point; it's practically begging, even with how he's forcing himself to look relaxed.

No, he's not being obvious enough yet. Kingdom Hearts beckons.

You walk the two steps to the TV and bring the controller back, sitting down like a pants-less Gamzee is a normal occurrence. It kind of is, anyway. The only abnormal part is you ignoring him.

The grin is difficult to keep off your face as his hand creeps to the button of your jeans, like he can subtly undress you without being noticed, which, as far as subtlety goes, is the equivalent of drunkenly driving a car through the front wall of a police station.

Still, you're kind of surprised when he gets back down on his knees and in between yours to get at the button with both hands. You give up on the pretense of the game and undo the button yourself, laughing, because he was going to take forever.

He runs his hands along your hardening erection lightly, which is in no way fair, and brushes his lips over the tip.

Then he gives you a rough squeeze that actually kind of hurts, honks at you, and runs to the kitchen, scooping his pants up as he goes.

Gamzee: 2, Game: 0

Asshole.


	3. Stupid Pretty Clowns in Stupid Pretty Dresses

You wake up in your living room the day after a particularly intense game of sleepover Mario Party, sprawled shirtless on your couch. Roxy is propped up against the TV stand like a ragdoll, clutching a half-empty bag of chips and snoring loud as a baby shrieking over the rumble of a Harley Davidson motorcycle. Aradia had been in the room when you fell asleep, and upon noticing her absence, you also notice someone had turned off the TV and the Gamecube you’d found in a yard sale last week.

Rising from the cushions like a zombie from a shitty black and white film, you trip over the spare controllers Vriska brought over. She’s going to want those back. You check the door to find it locked and your keys still where you left them. Aradia’s either still in your apartment or made a copy of your key when you weren’t looking.

The next place you check is the kitchen. Just as you foggily consider the possibility that she may have crammed herself into the oven, a thud comes from the direction of your bedroom, followed by a surprised cry of “Motherfucker!” and a burst of laughter.

You swear that in the unlikely event Aradia and Gamzee were having sex in your room; you were going to find a priest to get all the evil spirits out of your mattress. Maybe a cleric or a paladin would work. You know, if this were an RPG.

You’re heading towards the door to tell them off when a hand taps your shoulder. You pivot around mechanically and find Roxy bouncing unsteadily on her feet, lipstick and eyeliner smeared and her hair alarmingly tidy for having spent the night on the floor. You hadn’t noticed she’d stopped snoring. Maybe she wasn’t as loud as you made her out to be in your head.

"Got any coffee?" she asks.

"Uh, myeahgh," you answer with all the eloquence you can manage and point to the cupboard containing the instant coffee. You clear your throat and try again. "Yeah, up there."

"Thanks."

You leave Roxy in your tiny kitchen and knock on the bedroom door. Your molars grind at the flurry of giggles that answer you from beyond the locked door. You sigh.

"What are you two doing in my room?" You call.

"Nothing!" Chimes Aradia’s voice, and there is another suspicious _thump_. You press your ear to the door and think you hear her whisper “ _it’s easier if you sit on the edge of the bed_ ”.

Uh.

"No, really I think, with this being my room you are occupying, that you should disclose to me any sort of actions that may be causing harm to my personal belongings or sense of security," you insist.

"It’s _fine_ , trust me Tavros!” She answers after too long of a pause.

"I’ll trust you when I can see both of you. Preferably, fully clothed."

"In a few minutes, we’re working on it."

You give up. You can be stubborn, but so can she, and it’s too early for this. You join Roxy in gazing vacantly at the coffee pot and try not to think about what’s possibly going on in your room.

* * *

It’s some time later and you’re alone in your apartment. Mostly. Gamzee’s still in your room but Aradia had run out ten minutes before, herded Roxy out the door (still holding one of your coffee mugs), into the grungy main hallway of your floor, and slammed the door shut with a wink.

Now all you have to do is clean up some of the stray chip crumbs and cheese dust clumps and convince your last friend to get his ass out of your (still locked) room so you can find a clean shirt.

You hear the creak of your door opening a few seconds after you turn off your vacuum. He clears his throat cautiously and when you turn to look at him moving towards you, your thoughts crash faster than your old laptop trying to run Skyrim with all the graphics turned to their highest setting.

"Everyone up and exited your space?" He asks.

You don’t answer. Instead, you find yourself thinking three things.

One: Oh-no, he’s pretty, _shit_.

Two: No man should be able to sway his hips like that.

Three: That’s one short dress.

The dress is a deep purple and black, and it only just covers him; it’s meant for someone shorter, though he is lithe enough for it to fit otherwise. He’s swapped his facepaint out for black lipstick and heavy eyeliner that Aradia must have put on him. His hair is pulled back in the messiest ponytail you’ve ever seen, and for some reason, the entire thing, goth-ish and feminine as it is, works on him.

(Aradia seemed to like the goth style, though she personally never wore it. That didn’t stop her from making everyone else wear it when occasion permitted.)

"Am I fucking pretty, Tav?" He asks, taking a few mischievous steps into the living room and twirling around once. You’ve forgotten how to breathe, as if the air has been visually punched out of you. He is simultaneously the most ridiculous and hottest thing that’s ever been in your apartment and you’re not sure what to do.

You sit down on the couch and wonder if maybe you should reevaluate your life.

He follows you and slips between your knees, pulls your palms away from where your chin was resting on them and looks at you carefully before letting an almost nervous smile show.

He rests his forehead in your collar and laughs before kissing up to your chin and cheeks and across your nose back down to your lips. You kiss him back, fighting a grin and failing and he pulls away a little and his expression matches your own.

You flick his cheek and he laughs again, standing up and extending a hand in invitation. He pulls you against himself and you both end up dancing around in the space between the couch and the TV, which of course means stumbling around with no music involved whatsoever except whatever erratic tune Gamzee is currently humming.

You both eventually crash over the arm of the couch, Gamzee landing on his back and you landing on him, and he wraps his arms around you and laughs.

"You’ve been doing that a lot," you say to his waist, because that’s where your face has ended up and now that you’re thinking about it, the bodice of his dress is really soft. "Laughing, I mean."

"Maybe you’re just making me to want to laugh," he says.

You lift yourself up by the back of the couch and stare at him, and you can see the moment he realizes what he just said because his face screws up and turns red.

"I, uh, shit Tav I wasn’t meanin’ anything like that you’re a funny motherfucker or nothing, or, wait, no, you are, but-" He stops his derailing sentence when he finds one of your hands has pasted itself over the bottom half of his face.

"Maybe," you say in your best attempt at a sexy voice. (which is likely no sexier than your regular voice but you know he likes your regular voice anyway so it’s no problem. Probably. You think.) "Maybe you should shut up now."

Gamzee nods at you, very serious and still, and then you realize you have no idea what to do beyond that so you just end up staring at him some more until he licks your palm, which is still over his mouth. (You kind of got caught up in staring at his wide open eyes even though that’s not something you would admit at the moment.) You wipe the saliva off on his forehead and make a face at him. He smiles at you.

This is going nowhere. You’re sitting on a guy who looks way too good in a dress and all you can do is stare at him. This won’t do. You need to do something else before he spaces out or loses interest.

You kiss him again to buy time, and by the time you’re done that you’ve decided on the next thing that you should maybe do.

You get up off the couch and tug him up until he’s sitting facing you, then slide your fingertips up just under the skirt of his dress. He stops breathing, staring at your hand with what looks like wonder until he decides you’re not moving fast enough and tries sliding down the cushion towards you. You take your hand off his thigh and tell him to sit back up, and he complies with only the briefest hesitation.

Your hand resumes its trek up his leg a little faster this time, and it’s not long until you realize he’s got something on under the skirt. You flip the skirt up out of curiosity, only to find he’s wearing boxers in the most garish color combination you have seen on a garment this millennium.

"Gamzee," you sigh, "what is…" you flick the hem of his boxers, "this?"

"Uh," he says with an open-mouthed blank expression. You wait for him to figure it out and he bends over to examine the eyesore covering his dangly bits. "My undies?" he asks.

You end up snorting at his response. ‘Undies.’ Right. Well at least there was thought put into the rest of his outfit. He made an effort. Those boxers have to go though. You pull them off, revealing his half-erect joystick, and determine that he’s never getting those back because you’re going to have to burn them. They end up on the floor somewhere. You’re not sure where. You don’t care right now.

He’s perfect and waiting for you impatiently on the couch and if you’ve ever been so hard in your life you sure as fuck can’t remember it and these pants need to get the hell off you right now—

Someone knocks on the door.

 “Hey, you home, Tavros?” Shit. Shit shit shit you can hear the blue lipstick in her voice and crap you didn’t lock your door, did you?

She knocks again. You grab the skirt of Gamzee’s dress and flip it down so he’s halfway decent. He looks devastated. Actually that look is kind of endearing. Not that you have time to appreciate it because the door to your apartment is creaking open and he’s now attempting to bury himself in the cushions. You drag your hands over your face and look to the sky— no, ceiling for answers but all you see is the marker heart that you haven’t managed to clean off and you want to scream.

She walks into the room and snickers, likely because she found you on your knees in front of the couch and Gamzee somehow sitting under a cushion in a dress and makeup, looking somewhat close to mortified. Or maybe just disappointed and frustrated. Sexually frustrated.

You point in the direction of the Gamecube controllers and resist the urge to faceplant on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to pretend this chapter wasn't complete and utter shit, alright? And we're also going to agree that more people should write crossdressing Gamzee. People that can actually write and not me.
> 
> Aaaaaaaaaaaand I still can't write smut.


End file.
